


upon a canvas kissed by sunlight

by ironwoodsfairy



Series: Through the Oasis [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist!Sokka, M/M, Meet-Cute, MuseumGoer!Zuko, Teen for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironwoodsfairy/pseuds/ironwoodsfairy
Summary: When inspiration abandons him just in time for his last university art final, Sokka heads to the museum.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Through the Oasis [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793026
Comments: 20
Kudos: 480





	upon a canvas kissed by sunlight

_Go to the museum_ , they said. _Find some inspiration_ , they said. 

What a load of bullshit.

He’d been there for hours at the encouragement of his professors, wandering the halls of alabaster sculptures and oil paintings to find something, _anything_ , that would rouse his creative abilities one last time before he was awarded his degree in fine arts. He was finally at the end, finally able to see the light at the end of this ridiculously arduous tunnel, but instead of easily finding an exit, he’d run into a solid wall that demanded he beat himself over the head again, and again, and again. 

For the past three weeks, the last section of his sketchpad lay empty, preceded by his penultimate assignment that centered on his family. Sketches of his grandmother’s profile filled the pages, each stern yet soft, an aching timelessness in her eyes no matter the emotions that sat in the crinkles beside them. Luckily, that collection had been guided. This one was not.

But time was running out and it wasn’t long now before his _final_ final was due, and when none of them could get through to him, his professors had sent him here - to the halls where clearly everybody else in the world had had a miraculous thought and vomited it into existence to be salivated over by mankind.

So finally he decided to redraw the subject of beloved portraits in his own style. Except nothing was _taking_ . Nothing whispered to him, nothing sang to him, and nothing _happened_. For once, the freedom of his specialty was working against him, and his muse proved to be one large crock of shit.

As he turned into yet another hall full of all-too-cheery fruit-faced people on old canvases and small, rowdy children on a field trip, Sokka groaned and thumped down on the nearest bench with a decisive _thud_ , his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His stomach grumbled in his ears, and he was suddenly reminded how long it’d been since breakfast.

_No more. I give up. Done. So done._

With a sigh and the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers, he opened his eyes and cast a tired glance around the newest hall. Filtered sunlight danced about the room, just like in the others. The sweet young lady - a first year teacher, he recalled, having overheard her introducing her chatty students to the museum curator - kept trying to keep her kids in order, just like the others. An elderly couple walked by, hand in hand, just like the others. 

Except this time the sunlight caught in the taller gentleman’s long white beard as he whispered a joke, causing the shorter one to laugh, his voice thick and booming as it bounced off the walls. He clapped a hand to his mouth, but this only made him laugh harder, and his husband was caught between snorting and shushing him. 

Sokka’s heart squeezed and skipped a beat. If the art that hung on the walls and sat upon pedestals refused to sing to him, perhaps this pair would instead. 

Quietly, and as quickly as he could, he flipped his sketchpad open and scratched down an outline. A soft smile played on his lips as he caught the couple’s proportions, the rough angles of their faces, and the delicacy in their hands. Within minutes they had drifted to the next hall, but it was all Sokka needed to catch the ghost of their likeness on his paper. In time, he would create his own beings from the skeletons he had traced, as a sculptor lays clay over twisted wires to create a life frozen in time. But, finally, he at least had a direction, and a start.

The absence of sound caught his attention first, and when he glanced up he realized he was, for the first time since leaving his apartment, alone. Sokka breathed out a harsh sigh of relief, savoring the quiet and the way tension seeped from his muscles at the sense of peace. But as he began to rise from his seat, soft footsteps entering the hall from across the room caught his attention, and he froze. 

Something tugged at him as he watched the newest addition to the hall, like a half-whispered name long thought forgotten. The figure was clad in dark wash jeans and a black leather jacket, his long black hair tied up in a messy knot at the base of his skull, a large pink and red puckered scar setting alight the left side of his face. Even across the distance, Sokka could make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the strong point of his nose, and he felt his heart skip another beat, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Hoping to make it look nonchalant, in case the stranger’s gaze shifted from the artwork to the bench, Sokka settled against the wall and pulled his sketchpad back to his lap, doing his best to make it seem like all of his attention was there, and not on the man across from him.

He knew he should ask permission, but from experience he also knew doing so took away from the magic, from his ability to represent the moment for what it was, and not what it could be. Instead of the awkwardness that settled over those who agreed to his proposals, Sokka watched as a cat-like finesse underlined the other man’s movements, how strength and stability settled in his ribs and along his limbs as he moved from one painting to the next. 

Sokka drew as quickly as he could, holding onto the moment and silently begging the stranger not to notice him or to leave before he had finished. While sketching the elderly couple had felt easy, with the ability to build them to be whomever he wanted them to be upon his page, the man before him felt… too solid. The curve of his spine and the sound of his booted heel upon the floor told Sokka that he was far too much his own person to be drawn incorrectly from memory, and much too himself to be molded into another man entirely. Instead, he was a person who demanded to remain none other than exactly who he was, even on some stranger’s paper. So Sokka obliged.

He had just finished correcting the curve of the ravaged ear when a voice startled him, making his hand jump and the air get sucked from his lungs at the soft gravel of it.

“What are you drawing?”

“I, uh, it’s- um…” Sokka stammered, feeling a flush creep up his neck and spill into his cheeks. He could handle watching this stranger, and he could handle drawing him. But talking to him? This man who demanded to be noticed, to be appreciated, even in a hall of classical art? That was another story.

Sokka cleared his throat. “My final assignment for university. It’s the last thing standing between me and the real world, other than graduation.”

The stranger only nodded and returned his attention to the painting before him, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

Sokka glanced down at his sketchbook and smothered a nervous cough. The stranger unsettled him, though in the best of ways. Talking to people simply wasn’t his strong suit, and now the shield that was his drawing was gone. He tucked his sketchpad under his arm, his pencil behind his ear, and stood from the bench to leave. He’d had enough of the museum for one day, and now that his project had a direction, he could take a breather.

Sokka had just crossed the five paces between the bench and the stranger when he spoke again, and Sokka felt gooseflesh tickle the back of his neck.

“What’s the subject of your final?” 

He hadn’t turned, but Sokka could clearly feel the man’s pinpoint focus on him. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself. “I decided on portraits. The prompt assigned three weeks ago was open, but it took me until today to figure out what I wanted to do.”

They were silent for a beat, then two. A third passed, and Sokka had just begun to sigh in relief when the stranger turned, fixing honey-brown eyes on him that glinted in the sunlight.

“Can I see it?”

Sokka felt himself freeze, but his mind wouldn’t stop moving. At the same moment he heard the man’s words, he also recognized his scar to have come from a burn, and at the same time he recognized the burn, he also noted that behind him rose the largest painting in the museum - a scene of death and hellfire, of a mother’s tears and a father’s betrayal - and at the same time he registered the painting, he also noticed the genuine smile that sat on the man’s lips and twinkled in his eye.

Sokka shut his unhinged jaw with a snap and swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s cool.” He opened his book to the sketches of Gran Gran, and allowed the stranger to flip through the pages slowly. “I was originally going to be sketching painted portraits in my own style, but nothing grabbed me. So I found inspiration in them instead,” he said as the pages were turned to the elderly couple. “I’m just going to do people now. Some are easy, like these two.” Sokka moved to stand beside the man instead of across from him so he could point easier, and the scent of amber and sandalwood filled his nose. “They were in here earlier, and they’re easy, because even though they’re themselves, they can be anyone.” Sokka breathed deeply, inhaling the scent and any courage he could find, and turned to the next page. “Others demand to remain exactly who they are, even when they are captured on paper.”

He felt the man beside him stiffen and watched his smile falter, and Sokka prepared an apology and a half in his head. Instead of berating him, however, the stranger only traced a finger along the drawn edges of his scar. It was only the rough beginning of his likeness, to be sure, but the resemblance was uncanny, and undeniable.

Sokka waited, watching a muscle tick in the man’s jaw and the way loose black hairs framed his face. 

The stranger turned to look at him and handed the sketchbook back, offering a toothy grin that broke the tension and shined with the light of lives long passed, one that Sokka could only describe as _ancient_. “Your work is beautiful.” 

He blinked rapidly, unable to comprehend the incredibly calm reaction to the situation at hand.

“My name is Zuko.”

“Zuko, it’s nice to meet you. I’m-” Sokka paused, his words interrupted by a violently loud growl of his stomach. Zuko laughed, and Sokka just blushed. “I’m Sokka.”

“Sokka. Well, care to accompany me to the cafe? They have great sandwiches. And tea.”

Zuko’s eyes were wide - half wary, and half hopeful. Sokka felt his stomach flip as a grin spread across his face. “Actually, that would be great.” 

Sokka followed Zuko out of the hall the same way he’d come in, laughed at a joke he made, and silently sang the praises of all who sent him to the halls where sunlight kissed canvas.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "I went to museum to get some inspiration and then I saw you staring at one of the paintings in awe and wow you just noticed me drawing you and this is awkward"


End file.
